Spartan Gold - Cussler Clive (полная версия книги .TXT) 📗

Signora Bernardi gave them a wave, then shut the door.

“Croatia, here we come,” Remi said.

Sam, who had been tapping on his iPhone, now held up the screen. “There’s a flight leaving in two hours. We’ll be there for lunch.”

Sam’s estimate was generous. As it turned out the quickest route was an Alitalia flight from Venice to Rome, then across the Adriatic to Trieste, where they rented a car and drove across the border and south to Oprtalj, some thirty miles away. They arrived in late afternoon.

Situated atop a thousand-foot hill in the Mirna Valley, Oprtalj had a distinctly Mediterranean feel, with terra-cotta pantile roofs and sun-drenched slopes covered in vineyards and olive groves. Oprtalj’s history as an ancient medieval fort showed itself in the town’s labyrinth of cobblestone streets, portcullis gates, and tightly packed, row-style buildings.

After stopping three times for directions, which came in either halting English or Italian, they found the town hall a few blocks east of the main road, behind the Church of Saint Juraj. They parked their car beneath an olive tree and got out and walked.

With only 1,100 inhabitants in Oprtalj, Sam and Remi were hoping the Tradonico family name would be renowned. They weren’t disappointed. At their mention of the former Doge, the clerk nodded and drew them a map on a piece of scratch paper.

“Museo Tradonico,” he said in passable Italian.

The map took them north, up a hill, past a cow pasture, then down a zigzagging alley to a garage-sized building painted in peeling cornflower blue. The hand-painted sign above the door had six words, most of them in consonant-heavy Croat, but one word was recognizable: TRADONICO.

They pushed through the door. A bell chimed overhead. To their left was an L-shaped wooden counter; directly ahead a twenty-by-twenty-foot room in white stucco and dark vertical beams. A half dozen glass display cases were situated around the room. Along the walls shelves displayed tiny sculptures, framed icons, and knickknacks. A rattan ceiling fan wobbled and creaked.

An elderly man in wire-rimmed glasses and a tattered argyle sweater vest rose from his chair behind the counter. “Dobar dan.”

Sam opened the Croat phrase book he’d picked up at the Trieste airport, and opened it to a dog-eared page. “Zdravo. Ime mi je Sam.” He pointed to Remi and she smiled. “Remi.”

The man pointed a thumb at his chest. “Andrej.”

“Govorite li Engleski?” Sam asked.

Andrej waggled his hand from side to side. “Little English. American?”

“Yes.” Sam nodded. “From California.”

“We’re looking for Pietro Tradonico,” said Remi.

“The Doge?”

“Yes.”

“Doge dead.”

“Yes, we know. Is he here?”

“No. Dead. Long time dead.”

Sam tried a different tack: “We came from Venice. From Poveglia Island. Tradonico was brought here, from Poveglia.”

Andrej’s eyes lit up and he nodded. “Yes, 1805. Pietro and wife Majella. This way.”

Andrej came out from behind the counter and led them to a glass case in the center of the room. He pointed to a framed wood-carved icon painted in flaking gold leaf. It showed a narrow-faced man with a long nose.

“Pietro,” Andrej said.

There were other items in the case, mostly pieces of jewelry and figurines. Sam and Remi walked around the case, inspecting each shelf. They looked at one another, shook their heads.

“Are you a Tradonico?” Remi asked, gesturing to him. “Andrej Tradonico?”

“Da. Yes.”

Sam and Remi had discussed this next part on the plane, but hadn’t decided how to handle it. How exactly did you tell someone you wanted to gawk at their ancestor’s remains?

“We would like to see . . . perhaps we could—”

“See body?”

“Yes, if it’s not an inconvenience.”

“Sure, no problem.”

They followed him through a door behind the counter and down a short hallway to another door. He produced an old-fashioned skeleton key from his vest pocket and opened the door. A wave of cool, musty air billowed out. Somewhere they heard water dripping. Andrej reached through the door and jerked down a piece of twine. A single lightbulb glowed to life, revealing a set of stone steps descending into darkness.

“Catacombs,” Andrej said, then started down the steps. Sam and Remi followed. The light faded behind them. After they’d descended thirty feet the steps took a sharp right and stopped. They heard Andrej’s shoes scuffing on stone, then a click. To their right a string of six bulbs popped on, illuminating a long, narrow stone passageway.

Cut into each wall were rectangular niches, stacked one atop the other to the twenty-foot ceiling and spread down the length of the passage. In the glare of the widely spaced bulbs, most of the niches were cast in shadows.

“I count fifty,” Sam whispered to Remi.

“Forty-eight,” Andrej replied. “Two empty.”

“Then not all of the Tradonico family is here?” Remi asked.

“All?” He chuckled. “No. Too many. The rest in graveyard. Come, come.”

Andrej led them down the corridor, occasionally pointing at niches. “Drazan . . . Jadranka . . . Grgur . . . Nada. My great-great-great-grandmother.”

As Sam and Remi passed each niche they caught glimpses of the skeletal remains, a jawbone, a hand, a femur . . . bits of rotted cloth or leather.

Andrej stopped at the end of the passageway and knelt at the bottom niche in the right-hand wall. “Pietro,” he said matter-of-factly, then pointed at the niche above. “Majella.” He reached into his pants pocket, withdrew a tiny flashlight, and handed it to Sam. “Please.”

Sam clicked it on and shined it into Pietro’s niche. A skull stared back. He shined it down the length of the skeleton. He repeated the process with Majella’s niche. Just another skeleton.

“Nothing but bones,” Remi whispered. “Then again, what were we expecting, that one of them would be holding the bottle?”

“True, but it was worth a try.” He turned to Andrej. “When they were brought from Poveglia, was there anything else with them?”

“Pardon?”

“Were there any belongings?” Remi said. “Personal possessions?”

“Yes, yes. You saw upstairs.”

“Nothing else? A bottle with French writing on it?”

“French? No. No bottle.”

Sam and Remi looked at one another. “Damn,” he whispered.

“No bottle,” Andrej repeated. “Box.”

“What?”

“French writing, yes?”

“Yes.”

“There was box inside coffin. Small, shaped like . . . loaf of bread?”

“Yes, that’s it!” Remi replied.

Andrej stepped around them and walked back down the passageway. Sam and Remi hurried after him. Andrej stopped at the first niche beside the steps. He knelt down, leaned inside, rummaged about, then scooted back out with a wooden crate covered in Cyrillic stencils. It was a World War II ammunition crate.

Andrej opened the lid. “This?”

Lying atop folds of rotted canvas and half buried under spools of twine, rusted hand tools, and dented cans of paint was a familiar-looking box.

“Good God,” Sam murmured.

“May I?” Remi asked Andrej. He shrugged. Remi knelt down and carefully lifted the box out. She turned it over in her hands, inspecting each side in turn, before finally looking up at Sam and nodding.

Sam asked, “Is there . . .”

“Something in it? Yes.”

CHAPTER 55

TRIESTE, ITALY

Sam’s iPhone trilled and he checked the screen. To Remi, he mouthed, Selma, then answered. “That’s a new record. Took you less than two hours.”

They were sitting on the balcony at the Grand Hotel Duchi D’Aosta, overlooking the lights of the Piazza Unita d’Italia. Night had fallen and in the distance they could see the lights twinkling in the harbor.